As I was walking around a very nice big house
(one room of which contained some
statues of Buddha), I began finding dead bodies of black people. Soon the
police and many other people showed up, but no one asked me why I was there. It
was determined that there were 15 bodies altogether. I hadn't seen any blood,
and I thought the dead people might have died from a drug overdose from bad
dope. However, it looked as if the police had determined that all the dead
people had been murdered. Apparently someone had shot them all. When a friendly
detective (who looked like the character Sgt. Dignam, played by Mark Wahlberg in the movie
The Departed) showed up, I
began following him around from room to room, and he allowed me to watch him
conduct his investigation. I commented that this would be the "crime of the
year." Another black detective said no, that another crime was going to be the
crime of the year, but that this one would be close. I finally concluded a drug
dealer must have lived in the house and had made enough money from drugs to
afford the impressive house. All the dead black people must have known each
other and had come to the house to use drugs.

As the police were wrapping up
their investigation, I suddenly began thinking I would like to write a
journalistic story about the crime. I had never done such a thing, but this was
my chance, since I was there to witness the crime scene. I could watch every
step of the investigation, how it proceeded from beginning to end. I mentioned
something about the story to the detective and he seemed to like the idea. The
story would take a lot of work and would be different from anything I had ever
done. I thought I might like to do that.

When I began talking with
someone else about a story, around 50 people suddenly gathered around me in a
circle and all of them told me to tell the story. I protested that I wasn't a
story teller and I didn't want to do it. I didn't really know how to tell
stories. Finally, however, with everyone gathered around me, I thought I would
try, even though I knew I was probably going to get in trouble by telling the
story. I decided I would just start a story, go along, and take it wherever the
story led.

I told them the first thing I
wanted to tell them was that I wrote my
dreams. I told them I had been writing for a very long time, over 30 years,
since 1972. I then told them I had had a dream that these people had been
killed. Some of the people gasped when they heard that. I then said, "After I
had this dream that these people'd been killed, I ended up here. I came
here because of the dream." I added that I had had a "prescient dream" and I
told them I was interested in prescient dreams.

I knew my words sounded
incredible and I knew I would immediately be suspected of having been somehow
involved in the murders, but as I continued talking, parts of my dream began
returning to me. I told them I now remembered coming there. I said I had been on
a levy and I remembered falling down the levy. After falling down the levy, I
had walked to the house. I explained that I had showed up at the house as a
result of having had the dream.

The detective was now looking
at me very suspiciously, obviously suspecting that I was somehow involved with
the murders. I, however, knew I was in no way involved.

I mentioned other similarities
between my dream and the actual murder scene.

I then said, "The detective
took me into a room and showed me a bag filled with little pieces of dope about
the size of dog biscuits." I told them the detective had said the pieces of dope
were
cocaine.
I said, "They weighed one point eight pounds."

I told them there had been a
second large transparent bag which contained smaller pieces of cocaine. The
detective had laid the second bag on a table and I had even held it. At first I
thought the dope was
heroin
because it was brown, but the detective had said it was cocaine because it was
more than five years old. Suddenly, however, I couldn't remember whether that
scene had happened in my dream or whether the scene had happened in reality. I
looked around at the people's faces and asked them if something had ever
happened to them and they couldn't remember for sure whether it had been a dream
or reality. I remained in a quandary trying to remember if the scene had been in
a dream or had been in reality.

I mentioned some other points
which had been similar in the dream and in the actual crime scene. Finally the
people seemed to have heard enough. Uncertain whether I would be arrested, I
asked, "Am I under arrest? Can I go home?"

The police were among those
listening to me, but no one stepped up to arrest me. I finally said, "I just
thank God that I'm able to go home now."

My sleeping bag was lying on
the floor next to me. I picked up the bag, rolled it up, and tucked it under my
arm. A woman who seemed like a combination of my ex-wives Carolina and Louise was standing close to me. I thought she was going to be extremely angry, but she
wasn't. When I asked her what she thought about what I had said, she said she
thought I was "a thoughtful missive." I took that to mean
that she thought I was someone through whom messages were sent. It looked as if
she were finally beginning to understand a little the role of dreams in my life.

As she and I started to walk
out of the house, the detective looked at me, but he didn't arrest me. It looked
as if I would be allowed to leave.